So We Will Do Them Anyway
by NowWeOwnTheNight
Summary: Highschool AU: Speirs/Lipton central- also with heavy Nixon/Dick, Edward/Eugene, Muck/Malarkey, and side Kitty/Harry, Webster/Leibgott. M for swearing. All my love if you get the title reference
1. to ask- inquire

Old Summary:

Band of Brothers- Modern AU, HighSchoolAU

Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, Dick Winters/Lewis Nixon, Eugene Roe/Babe Heffron, Skip Muck/Donald Malarkey, Harry Welsh/Kitty [Maybe background!Liebgott/Webster, and Perconte/Guarnere if you want, and also... no, wait... that's it.]

Storyline/sum up: Speirs is the friendless nerd with all sorts of rumors surrounding him, Lipton is the English master but shit all at anything else, Winters and Nixon formed a group of idiots in year two, and Eugene eyefucks Heffron in the time he gets free from minding the hectic lifestyle while 'Nixters' are in their fancy-ass spec math and English lit classes. Muck, malarkey, an Luz may have a criminal record, Harry is pining after Kitty; the rich girl down the road- and encountered trouble when playing out their first conversation to make sure his witty quips worked... By believing that it actually happened... And then getting really sad because they never talked again. Edward is a kind-of acquaintance to Speirs, as he helps train horses at Ron's uncle's farm (where Ron rides as frequently as he watches Doctor Who), Bull Randleman is a gentle giant who does nothing but observe and give what help he can. Perconte and Guarnere [how the fuck is that guy's name spelt?] don't do much of anything but be annoying at times, and obnoxious at others. Life was just scraping the bottom of the 'normal' barrel when Senior year begins, and then Lip decides to reply to the mysterious note that appeared in his locker.

* * *

A silent, stoic, smart boy sat alone during lunch, walked home five days of the week, had homework and assignments handed in on time or pre-due where possible. He cross references in said assignments where possible, which was at all times… and was still raking in the highest scores of the classes. Either his teacher understood the reference and decided it was clever, or he had actually written a good piece of alternate universe fanfiction... It was never said.

He'd spend free time as a solitary speck of dust on the horizon of all other life forms, no sight to behold, be it parents or peers. Running until his legs made the call and carried him home; visiting his uncle's ranch over the hill his house backed onto; reading in his favorite tree.

Eating whatever he had made at five thirty in the morning in a busy yard, waiting for everything to move around him so he could go to the next class. He didn't even people-watch to pass the time. Instead, he planned the remainder of his day: what he would do in the afternoon, how he could get all his work done and whatever percentage of assignments completed in the constraints of his curfew and self-enforced bedtime. Life was a chaos, and a downright pain in the ass, and Ronald Speirs needed it orderly for any sense to come out of it. Nothing rash, brash, sidewinding, or any of the sorts that would blow his ship off its properly lain path. He was never late, nor was he early- he arrived precisely when he meant to.

However, Ronald Speirs was not a wizard.

This sliver of a control complex had _nothing_ to do with problems surrounding the so-called upmost-of-importance 'friend making' 'business'; for one reason or another, he simply could not get along with other children. It's as if Ron was alienated for reasons of which he wasn't sophisticated enough to comprehend: he came from an all-American home, raised with the freedom to choose atheism over religion, finance enough for a secure future. Not a handicap or disability in his life. Allergies, heart conditions, and shortsightedness thankfully skipped Speirs' generation. With the brains and the 'brawn' and the refined, smooth speech of a mature man, one would think that he would be at least somewhat desired for as a friend or boyfriend.

No one listened to him, anyway. He rarely spoke.

Hell, the only people who have heard him talk more than a few uttered words were his parents, close family, teachers, and the kindly lunch lady who snuck an extra juice box in exchange for a vending machine order.

Just because he was friendless didn't mean he wasn't friendly. Or impolite. Or angsty, or overly violent, or mentally unstable, or homeless, or a sex addicts, or homicidal, or anything else of rumor that happened to enter the gossiping carousel of destruction; accumulated throughout his primary and early high school education. No, he didn't strangle a kid with his Smiggle multi-zip pencil case after offering him a hand with picking dropped books up. He didn't own a gun, nor did he have the patience to wait for someone to die of lack of oxygen. No, his father didn't beat him, nor his mother; who was not a crack head or alcoholic. He didn't have overachieving sibling that drove him into a blinding jealousy. He was an only child.

His family was perfectly normal, thank you.

Such rumors were stories that Speirs laughed at. Stories so untrue they were beyond that point of embarrassment and life-ruin, and he found it quiet enjoyable to hear the theories of his childhood, of his extracurricular activities.

The truth was simple: he took greater pleasure in running alone, going to the gym without gaggling peers, and swimming at the beach. School track clubs, football, netball, cheerleading, and the like were overrated in Speirs' view. All the letterman jackets, short skirts, jocks versus nerds... He wasn't classified under a banner- strong as an ox, despite his lithe build, stronger than a majority of the recognized athletes. And yet, he knew his way around the Starship Enterprise twice over and had extensive knowledge of the wibbly-wobbly timeline of a certain traveling man from Gallifrey. He perked up at the growling engine of a sixty-seven Chevy Impala, belonging to his Phys-Ed teacher Sobel, roaring down the street. He had watched enough Sherlock to feel as if he too could tell a pilot from his left thumb. He shouted 'Expelliarmus!' whilst drowning bugs in Mortein. When he got to the turnaround atop the neighborhood hill, he screamed his pick of 'Allonsy!' or 'Geronimo!' to the world before pelting at top speed back down the three miles he took up.

The reality was that no one had bothered to get close enough to realize such things- and he didn't go out searching for friends. They would come to him, time permitting. Well, that was how he used to think. This year may be the time for him to reach out, for once. As much as he refused to admit it, the prospect of loneliness for another full school year kept him up on the last few nights of holiday. There had to be people out there like him, looking for someone who operated in his style.

There had to be.

And finally, in the first term of twenty-thirteen, they appeared. It was the first time he laid eyes on one Carwood Lipton.

* * *

A/N;

I've got another chapter ready to go up soon- I really like this idea and am certain to continue; hopefully you like it too


	2. Sizzuhs

"Muck." The chestnut haired, chocolate eyed boy next to Eugene trailed out of the horribly graphic tale he was telling to the surrounding four students. Turning on his questioner, Eugene, who he had thrown a shower of rainbow confetti as greeting earlier to the new school year with a grumpy 'where the fuck were you all summer you asshole I almost dies like three times'... Muck hummed; as in 'ask your question, peasant, can't you see I'm busy?'. It wasn't that Muck was a particularly stuck up kid. He just had trouble concentrating on multiple things at one time.

"Scissors?" "Try Malark. Sorry." Muck Skip grinned, his Colgate-ad brand smile exuding a clear signal of 'you're fucking welcome' before he launched back into the story. "Anyway, so I said 'Dude. There is no way in hell you could fit that body in that car boot…' and then the police turned up, and Luz here was all like 'You guys run, I got this.' So we did, and I am not shitting you, he…"

"Malarkey? Scissors?" Malarkey waved Roe off as the story escalated with a dismissive: "Nah. Traded them for Vat-69 with Harry. Nix said he'd give me his Geo homework if I got my hands on one."

"Sure. Bull. Psst! Randleman!" The sweetheart of a muscle mountain, his blond curls having been cut into a buzz fashion, spun slightly in his seat to his old friend.

"Nope. Sorry, Eugene." Alert and half a step ahead, typical Bull. They shared a private, genuine smile- first class of the year, and the two of them were overjoyed to find that both they and the rest of their little posse had ended up in the same stream of subjects. That meant Math, English, Geography, History, Social Science. Bull and Roe were the unofficial 'shepherds' while Nixon and Winters were off over-achieving in their Spec Math, physics, and other fancy learning. Together, they bonded over a fierce protectiveness for their outlandish cluster of outcasts. Bull disentangled himself from the school football team almost as soon as he had joined in freshman year.

Everyone said it was a bad idea, but he was willing to give it a try.

It was a very bad idea, given their past reputation as a social group.

At roughly Year Two, their band of brothers was doomed to set in the hardest stone and weather into an unmovable force. It was founded and added to by a joint effort of Nixon and Winters; the boys were all but handpicked for the in-bond-not-in-blood relationships with one common factor. For one reason or another, irrational or stereotypical, each member was an alternative from what was considered the 'norm'- resulting in the eventual removal from cliques of the nerd-jock-in-between-er variety. And as absurd as the reasons were, not one man could be more grateful for it. In the shared experience, nobody wished the passing of eight years to go a path other than the one it seemingly was destined to. They wouldn't trade it for the world- not in the sappy way, but in a literal this-saved-me-more-than-once-and-in-more-ways-than-one way.

"Ey, Perconte. D'you have scissors?"

"Pencil case, I think." Perconte said disparagingly; not the hostile dismissal he was attuned to in the halls of school, but irritating nonetheless. A short root around the disgusting, moldy excuse of a bag yielded no scissors. That, and Eugene felt the need to douse his hands in disinfectant. Eternally.

"Nope, not in there."

No response.

"Perconte."

"What?"

"Scissors."

"Where?"

"Do you have any under your desk?"

"I dunno."

"Well, can you check?"

"What?"

"Can I look under your desk?"

"I dunno, if you want, but I'm pretty sure-" The last straw had been grasped and pulled. All Eugene wanted was something sharp enough to cut out the paper snowflake he spent all class designing. In an instant, Perconte's desk lid was flipped open, his desktop items flung all over the row in front of them, and Eugene scrabbled until he found a pair of blunt aluminum strips connected by a rusty screw at the middle amongst the month-old lunches. The teacher barely flinched; having dealt with at least two of the rowdy boys in the past years.

"Thank. You. Fucker." Eugene growled, accentuating the words with punches, his irritated tone only amplifying the guffaws of his friends. Perconte shrugged, flipped Eugene off, and slid under his desk to reclaim the scattered bits. This was basic math. So no one gave a flying theta what went on. Those in the firing line of projectile stationary and the poor girl who's eardrums would have underwent a good beating at Perconte's dismayed roar as his pencil shaving figurines went flying, sent Eugene glares that ranged from the everyday 'you are a nuisance and a distraction please die' and the more rare 'I will meet you in the parking lot...'.

There was little he could do. He sat and cut his snowflake out until the bell rang for recess time. This was life. Their little corner of the world housed Muck Skip, Donald Malarkey, George Luz, Richard Winters, Lewis Nixon, William Guarnere, Frank Perconte, Bull Randleman, Harry Welsh, Edward Babe Heffron, and himself; Eugene Roe. He had the nickname 'Doc roe', thanks to his penchant for righting precarious situations or mending any hurts that occur in the group- be it from a fellow mate or a normal person. A sane person. OH! Speaking of sane, there was one person he had missed! Carwood.

Carwood Lipton, the boy who was about as useful as a mossy brick in all aspects but kindness, politeness, charm, and public relations. He was going fuck-all with studies apart from English and English Lit, but at least he'd graduate satisfied in the knowledge that he had not done a single soul wrong. Carwood was the closest human embodiment of Winnie the Pooh to ever exist in this realm. Calmness, the patience of a saint, rationality, a people reading skill that was unheard of. He wasn't in the morning math class, the lowest level.

"English Lit, Roe." Bull whispered, noticing Eugene's eyed had locked onto the empty desk that Carwood had sat in for the previous year- now occupied by some faceless senior on the soccer team, getting all chummy with footballers and their cheerleading posse. Even in math, the hierarchy continued. But that's not what's important… or new news. Lip had apparently convinced teachers of his excellence in English Gen, Gen being general- or gowk -to bump him up to the top. How he swung that was a feat in itself… everyone judged that an idiot in everything but talking and analyzing words must be an idiot, full stop.

"He got in?"

"Yeah. Up with Winters… Harry, too."

"Wow."

Eugene counted the heads. Bull and himself. Two gingers- that was Babe and Muck. Perconte, Malarkey, Guarnere with their dark hair. Luz was missing, then. Welsh and Winters in their English class- now with Lipton. Nixon was probably hung-over in his Geography Advanced.

"Where's Luz?"

"Didn't you hear the story?"

"What, Mucks'?"

"Yeah. Talked his way out of arrest under the bridge- no one had seen him since Saturday night." He never had heard how it ended… and he wasn't clear-cut on whether he wanted to know or not. It was a scary thing, being with people so long that they become such a big part of you. They make up so much of your life; make it so bright and fun and worthwhile. With friends like these, Eugene was certain that they would be together for lifetimes, and the picture of going without was grey, as riddled as cheddar cheese with holes of sadness. At the hint of all that being taken away, ripped out of your side like a band aid that had been buried under skin and bone, well. There was nothing he wouldn't do to stop it from happening. It was terrifying. _He can't know, Eugene, keep it from him- 'Not today'_ Eugene swatted the inner demons who were reinstalling from the holiday break. At hand was a bigger problem.

"Shit." Luz could be dead in a ditch, confined in maximum security, framed for murder, God above only knows how many enemies he's made, and why... over money or thievery or drugs or-

"He'll turn up." Bull's words struck as lightning. Confidence kicked in, engulfing and dissipating fright like a tidal wave of sunshine. That was another thing: no matter how bad things got, despite all the trouble Luz attracts, he comes out on top without fail. Luz and Malarkey seem to be netted in a bubble of good luck at avoiding responsibility, injury, penalty, and in extreme cases, death. Eugene sighed.

"Yeah, you're right. He always does."

A scrunched up paper ball flew at his head.

**Stop making snowflakes. What are you, five? **

He knowingly grinned at the cursive, left-slanting, distinctly Edward handwriting, and wrote out in his own sloppy chickenscratch. He wrote, tossed it back. It bounced on the corner of his desk, and then into the center of the desk.

It came back, accompanied with an anticipating smirk.

_Shut up. I do this every morning. Dickhead. _

**Ok, ok, Gene. You special snowflake, you.**

Those two words.

How many times had Eugene tried to drive his point home, now? In the thousands, possibly billions? His friends wouldn't let up; just for his reaction, they said those two words. It may be fun and games to them… but it was cold hard, factual, serious business for Eugene. This battle had been ongoing for far too long. Beside himself, Eugene made angry bear sounds, unable to suppress his outburst.

"There. Is. NO. SUCH. THING. As. SPECIAL SNOWFLAKES! EVERY SNOWFLAKE IS SPECIAL!"

"Then how can they be special if they're all-"

The table tipped and broke when he stood up.

"FUCK YOU THAT'S HOW!"


	3. Apparently

"Lip."

"Yeah?"

"Text from Gene: 'All boys but Luz. Something about police but also not to do with disappearance. So not holding, not jail. Meet you at Recess.' Police? What did he do now?"

"Something about a body? I don't know. Asscrack of dawn, and I got a call from Muck and Larky… they were running and yelling for a cab. I couldn't make a word out."

"How about Harry?"

"Drank to death with Nix."

"Kitty?"

"Yep."

"Again?"

"Mhm."

"He does know it's all in his head, right? He's never said a word to her. She doesn't even know he exists."

"I know! Why get so hung up about it if-" Lipton was silenced by a harsh 'shhhh!' somewhere at the back of the class. Dick automatically produced a notepad, and the two kept on conversing by pen until the teacher arrived; who snatched up the pad on her way by, announced that reading time would take up all morning so her students could get into the term study text nice and early.

Harry was tired- and not the sleepy, groggy feeling that came with an all-nighter. No, he was out-of-his-head exhausted. Each limb must have a thousand kilo weight on it, because walking to the English class from his car, a bare hundred meters, took five minutes. The door took several tries to open- a passing teacher helped him as if he was some disorientated freshman. Please. He was a perfectly capable, functional, disorientated... not-freshman. Whatever the one up from that, he was it. You're looking at it. Harry didn't know what he was looking at when he walked into the class; but hopefully it was a mirror. If he were a rainbow kaleidoscope of affixes and Shakespeare faces, he wouldn't be in this state… and Kitty would have talked to him. Had she? He didn't remember. All he could recall was a nine o'clock chime and a fifth shot and Nixon, laughing, as he spoke of gnomes and fairies with a blank face.

Not a head turned to his bumbling entrance. Naturally.

He dragged his sorry corpse to the seat next to Winters. As always.

He leant onto the proffered shoulder. Uncommon.

He started speaking during reading time. That one was new.

"Dell."

Richard took a moment, flicking his gaze from scowl to scowl of the disrupted peers. This was English Lit, for crying out loud. The most important class to him, if he were to disregard his parents view on the matter. Harry was late, hung over, and loud. He'd expect this from Lewis, but not from Mr-perfect-and-rich-as-Bill-Gates-dentist-family-Welsh. Best to end whatever conversation Harry expected before it began, Winters thought.

"Like the computer?"

"No, were in one."

"We're in a computer?" Winters eyes widened and narrowed in the time that passed for Harry to blink, and he was asked a worried: "Did you watch The Matrix again?"

_Because you know, you know what that dos to your mind, Harry. To all of them. This is why we avoid philosophically challenging movies. Yeah? The ones with subtext. And with reality-questioning theories. Let's stick with the Lion King and its connection to Hamlet. That does its job well enough._

Harry rolled his eyes at the dumbfounded ginger.

"No… a _dell_-dell. A… gnomes and shit…" At that, Winters nodded in understanding, as if Harry were one of his fancy-schmancy Latin teachers spouting old mediaeval astrology or whatever the fuck they did, and ruffled the unruly head of hair on his shoulder. It had dulled to a dirtier blonde over the Christmas holidays- lack of sun, most likely. At a whiff, Winters reconsidered the thought. Maybe it hadn't been washed in a while.

Backtracking a few pages to regain context, allowing Harry to regain cognitive-ness, he read about lost love and labor or whatever ingenious thing magnificent William was on about this time

Half way through the class, Lewis burst through the door, apologizing to the teacher, and practically hurled himself into Dick's other side.

"What's going on, Dick? Welshie?"

"Apparently… we're in a dell." Winters explained shortly. Nixon didn't seem to comprehend. Whether he got that it was a place filled with fairies and gnomes, or a supercomputer manipulating their lives, Winters may never know. But in any case, all Lew did was get them in the bad books by continuing the already frowned-at chatter. On the first day.

"We're in geograph-"

"Nixon! What have I said about talking in class?"

"To… not to, Miss?"

"Detention. All three of you."

"Mother of all F-fairies!" Harry shouted from under Winters armpit, who sighed and wondered how he had gotten to this position. Sure, the two men encasing him were defiantly not morning people- and that he was fine with, he had gotten used to it, it was okay. He _was_ concerned with how Harry and, god forbidding, Lew ended up in English Lit. Harry was usually down in the lower standard with the rest of his mates, and Nixon couldn't tell Shakespeare from Dickens if his morning Irish coffee depended on it. He wouldn't know a sonnet if it was screeched to him from the PA system.

The three of them had always been the brains of the group- a constant, if you will. Each man to their own school specialty, and all with an innate quality to put themselves forward, accept that some were born to follow; and themselves to lead. This dynamic was what kept the world spinning, or so Dick heard, for if everyone was a leader or a follower, life would go out faster than an unpinned grenade.

Lipton was a little different- he wasn't all that smart in an academic scene. He could work words and explain, paint a picture through letters like a forgotten writing god. Poetry, analytical essays, public speaking, you name it- Lipton could do it with no preparation and no afterthought. The boys did take advantage of him at times, but it wasn't as though Lipton minded. That was another thing: Lip was fantastically calm, steeled, ready for opportunity. He was a teacher, a nurturer of others, not a leader. That he left to Winters, as far as Winters understood.

He could have been up with the popular kids, had he not been one-hundred-and-one percent gay. Lipton called it unfortunate. Dick called it a road less taken, as a joke. He said they could skip down it together, beneath a giant rainbow, feet kicking up daisies. Then, Lip would slap him and they would laugh through angry tears together.

This aside, Winters noticed how his duties had busied as high school poked him nearer to the cliff of graduation. Although they failed to see it, his friends grew less organized and in need of more guidance. That or they were targeted. Already, he had two cases of missing books, one case of a locker-shove. And it was only the first day.

Winters just slid his reading glasses further up his nose and kept reading Loves Labors Lost. Nixon wrapped his arms around Winters waist and pulled both him and his chair closer, away from Welsh; who flopped on the floor and was snoring softly. Across the room, Lipton chuckled under his breath.


End file.
